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Sunday Morning

I just got home. I spent most of the night in the emergency room. 

Don't worry, it's not me who got hurt. Actually, it's Steven. He sprained his ankle. His foot missed the curb, and down he went. "Oh, I'm down," was his first response. He sounded so cute.

I promptly made fun of him: "I'm wearing four inch heels and you can't even get over a little curb in flats?" He kindly informed me that men DO NOT refer to their shoes as flats, and then he grabbed his ankle. 

Uh-Oh.

He tried to get up and start walking, but the wince he made let me know that he needed to head to the ER. So I drove him. Once we were inside and he filled out the necessary paperwork, he made me promise to stay with him. "Stop being a baby," I said, "it's just a little sprain." 

I stayed.

He was discharged around midnight, and I had the pleasure of helping him into his condo. (Thank God for doormen). It was a sight: a 5'6" woman hauling a 6'3'' man into his condo. The doorman took appropriate pity on me. He carried my shoes.

I left his house at 11 A.M., after I'd gotten him breakfast from McDonald's. He tried to get me to stay. I told him I wanted to enjoy the morning. "It's been a while," I said as I kissed him good morning.
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